


words of life and beauty

by shotacatboy



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bottom Akechi Goro, Demon!Akira, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, choir boy!akechi, choir hymns used for horny purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27400708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotacatboy/pseuds/shotacatboy
Summary: Goro thrashes as he's grabbed and brought into Joker's arms, an embrace that feels disturbing and wrong but also sinfully alluring, like an aphrodisiac clouding his brain, delaying cognitive thought."Still, you fight it," Joker muses. His slender fingers travel down Goro's sides, settle around his hips and tug him possessively closer. "Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we?"Or: Akechi learns it's dangerous to deal with demons.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 3
Kudos: 181





	words of life and beauty

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first p5 fic pls be nice to me
> 
> also obligatory ik christianity isnt popular at all in japan but my brainworms were demanding this specific kink to be sated. i hope this is at least somewhat coherent

Winter wind blows crisp yet harsh through the night air, causing the trees surrounding Shujin Academy to sway back and forth in every direction. Their strained branches cast long, dark shadows over the premises as Goro Akechi, walking beneath them, strides unhurriedly forward and crushes the leaves underfoot.

The sky, he notes, has grown cloudier since his departure from the dorms, just a short walk away. Some stars peek through the gloom but they are mostly concealed by a consuming gray, signaling inclimate weather to come. Something beautiful and intimate, but tainted.

Goro scoffs. His feet hit the ground harder as he quickens his pace. _The chapel is just up ahead, now._

The evening is predictably cold. He knows, of course, it's much too late for him to be wandering about, that his final class and choir practice both ended hours ago—but his legs seem to be moving all their own, motivated by the chance to stand alone in the church and practice without the presence of prying eyes, and perfect his upcoming performance.

After all, it _is_ his first solo. He intends for it to be as flawless as everyone expects it to be, and then some. He wants to see the surprised expressions on their faces as he blows them away completely and utterly, and stands with his arms held wide as he becomes awash in the applause of his peers.

He pushes open the chapel doors and they creak open noisily, old and worn from decades’ use. He does not mind the darkness that greets him, nor the pad of his steps sounding against the otherwise eerie silence as he walks across the nave towards the crossing.

Were it still daylight, Goro would expect the aisles surrounding him to be filled to their capacity, occupied by watchful stares and hands clasped together in hopeful prayer, a sight both distant and welcoming, familial but artificial.

The faces Goro sees in his day-to-day are but wisps in his memory, too meaningless to be given a second glance. His fellow students, instructors, and the passerby he happens upon on this city's insignificant streets—but mere inconveniences, or objects used to push him closer to his goals.

Truth be told, he dislikes this academy. With every fiber of his being.

He approaches the lectern, surveys it with a gloved finger. The wood, a dark oak, is smooth but sturdy under the pad of his index, shown age through the occasional crack and dent decorating its surface but standing firm regardless. Much like himself, in a twisted, egotistical sort of sense.

When he draws away, he spots dust collected on the digit.

 _Disgusting._ He lifts his head, gazes out at the aisles in the confident, holier-than-thou manner he would expect from any regular preacher. _Maybe there are some candles here I can light._

They don't take long to find. Goro places two on the ground before the crossing and sets them aflame using a match from his coat pocket, watching with satisfaction at how their orange glow acts almost as a spotlight set directly in front of him. Drawing attention to him.

It's a strange thought. His lips part through a smile and, softly, he begins to sing.

He does not doubt the power of his own voice. His singing capabilities are above average, and he’s been told such enough times by the people surrounding him—praise piled atop admiration of his other talents, like his intellect, or his sharp perception. Compliments he hears but does not receive, refuses to acknowledge as anything but pointless words.

It is not _their_ praise he seeks. _Their_ approval is not the reason he started attending this academy.

The windows whistle at slight pressure from the outside's quickening breeze. He ignores them, presses on. He places a hand over his chest and imagines it is Sunday morning, that not a single seat is left empty and he's adorned in his shimmering, golden-black robes, putting on a show for the masses.

Lyrics ooze from his lips, thick and sweet, like honey. His shoes click against the ground and he steps forward, raises his arms. He grins at the imaginary crowd.

High grades. Popularity. Though in their own ways troublesome, they are necessary assets in securing success for his future. He will direct more heads towards him, keep them held there, necks poised at knife's edge—and he will play nice until, at last, it's his turn to finally strike.

He ends on a low note, a melancholy tone. He lowers his head and closes his eyes, enveloped in utter darkness as he lets the applause and happy cries fill his ears.

When he opens them the last thing he anticipates is to see the silhouette of a man, seated to the right of the doors. He cannot see the figure clearly due to their distance but knows, somehow, he is smiling.

Slow, ominous clapping sounds throughout the chapel, eliciting an unwilling shiver down his spine. He only allows his shock to last seconds, however.

"Who are you?" he asks. Cliché as it is, they're the easiest words he can muster. His fist winds into his back pocket and curls around the pocket knife he carries for safekeeping.

He blinks and the man, inhumanely swift, is seated two rows ahead of where he was initially. Still his figure is obscured by darkness, but Goro can vaguely make out curled, wily hair.

"That was an excellent performance," rings out a voice, and—yes, indeed, Goro can confirm it is most certainly a man speaking to him. "I can't remember when last I heard one quite so… captivating."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," Goro replies, politely, though inside he's filled with bitter suspicion and indescribable animosity. He doubts this is anyone he's seen around the academy, much less a janitor or some other staff. This isn't the first time he's practiced his singing alone, after all.

Most people don't simply happen upon the chapel late at night.

"If it's not too forward of me," says the man, seated in the third row from the front, now, "may I ask for an encore?"

 _Oh,_ Goro thinks, caught off guard once more. _He isn't even a man._

This stranger, he muses, can't be much older than he is, if at all—and, as if to further Goro's mounting puzzlement, he wears their school's uniform, bearing the unmistakable, casual appearance of any regular student. Save from one detail, of course.

L

Disguising the upper portion of his face is a delicate mask, black and white and seeming not much different from the sort a serial killer would wear in one of the many crime novels Goro's indulged in during his spare time.

His _eyes,_ too. They're gray, but Goro blinks again and wonders if he'd seen them flash blue or is undergoing some unexplainable hallucination.

He isn't left an ample opportunity to ponder it. A hand lands on his shoulder and a body slots behind his and he, acting on adrenaline-fueled instinct, swings his blade.

It collides with empty air. He slips, stumbles, and is spared the humiliation of tumbling to the ground below by a firm arm winding around his waist, catching him.

A chuckle, warm breath over the back of his neck. "Are you alright?"

"How—?" he demands. The boy laughs and releases him, puts a few steps between them.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

But Goro is teetering at the precipice of his patience. There's several factors not quite slotting into place, here—an explanation he cannot quite decipher that's abnormal, unseen. He meets the gaze beneath the mask but, frustratingly, finds no answers hidden within them, no vitriol or rage or murderous intent.

Just mischief, plain and simple. Like Goro's abject terror is something the boy finds amusing.

Goro raises his arm. The knife, he realizes, a second too late, is gone.

And not only that. His sleeve is not that of the winter coat he'd been wearing just a moment ago, but his choir robes, the ones he wears when he's singing.

"Ah, you finally look the part," utters the boy, clearly joyous to see this abrupt turn of events. He presses his palms together eagerly. "Would you mind singing for me? Please?"

 _You're insane,_ Goro thinks. He opens his mouth to say much the same, but no words come out.

"You look upset," the boy says. A frown tugs at his lips and he lists his head slightly to one side. "How odd. All I've heard from people is how _nice_ you are, but if I didn't know any better I'd say you tried to kill me just a second ago."

"I wasn't intending on _killing_ you," Goro defends, willing his tone to remain even, undisturbed. "It was supposed to scare you off." _But you're still here,_ he muses. An afterthought.

"Are you sure? That look in your eyes isn't very innocent."

Goro shakes his head. _Don't let him get to you. You have to stay focused._ "Who are you?" he repeats.

It's a question that doesn't require a verbal response. His arms drop to his sides and, suddenly, he knows the answer—or perhaps he'd known it all along.

_Joker._

"That's not a name," he whispers.

"Unfortunately," Joker replies, sadly shaking his head, "I don't remember what my real name is, anymore. I must've forgotten it over the years."

_What?_

"That doesn't make any sense." Goro raises his voice despite himself, insistent, as he remains rooted firmly in place, undecided on whether it's better to seek out the nearest exit or, instead, answers to the questions whirring like gears inside his mind. "If I'm right, there's a chance you're not actually a student here. Would you mind explaining yourself?"

"Oh, definitely not. I'm only attired in this manner to better connect with you but—ah, you're on edge, aren't you?"

Goro's façade slips. Momentarily. "What gave that away?"

"Nevertheless," Joker says, materializing at Goro's side. Both hands catch his shoulders and Goro sees they have suddenly become encased by gloves, a bright display of rose red pressed hard against his subdued robes. "I can be _very_ persistent, you know. One song? I promise I'll leave you be if you do."

There are multiple reasons not to trust him, Goro thinks. In fact, there's too many to count—but there is something about his voice, smooth as silk, and his warm, enveloping presence, that makes the offer disgustingly tempting. Goro wants nothing more than to say no, to refuse, and yet—

"Alright," he relents, shaking the hands off him. "I'll sing you _one_ song. Then you'll leave."

The smile that curls at Joker's lips is pleasant, but also unnerving. "Yes, of course."

Goro inhales. He lashes flutter shut as he gathers his bearings, and after some consideration he casts Joker a furtive glance.

"Is there any song you prefer?" he asks, with all the practiced, saccharine politeness he can muster. He prefers this—whatever it is—to end as quickly as possible.

"Not particularly," Joker replies, eyes widening in visible surprise at the address. "Whichever you prefer. Are there any you're most comfortable with?"

Goro nearly scoffs at the query. _What could possibly be comforting,_ he thinks, _in crooning the praise of a sanctimonious faith that preys off the fears of the weak-minded?_

These songs, these hymns—they're all the same, in the end, mere words and notes inscribed onto parchment paper, meant to instill thoughtless, temporary hope. They are worthless to him.

 _Regardless, I suppose this Joker character counts as an audience._ Goro inclines his head, returns to his previous position behind the twin candles he'd lit earlier. _It would be a waste not to use him as practice for Sunday's performance._

Joker, perceptive enough to take a hint, assumes a seat in the aisle. He crosses one leg over the other and presses an elbow over his knee, uses it as a rest for him to lean forward and ogle Goro in clear interest, eager for the show.

Goro sees that he's wearing different clothes, too. The school uniform is foregone for a long, black overcoat over a gray shirt, sleek pants and pointed shoes. 

Goro, given in to the fact that this isn't the first unusual occurrence he's observed tonight, elects to ignore it in favor of recalling the verse he's scheduled to sing, let its benign, somber wave wash over him as he carols the melody from memory.

Joker's gaze does not leave him during his recital, not once. Goro feels it on him even as he holds the final note, allows it to echo and dissipate into the crisp night air.

He exhales at Joker's responding applause.

"Better than the first time," he comments.

Goro preens at the praise before he can think to stop himself. "I would say I am well prepared for this weekend's performance," he replies, "just as you should be prepared to make your departure. We're finished here."

Joker, however, remains unmoving, and smirks as if he finds Goro's dismissal to be a jest.

"Perhaps you may have misheard me," he says. "I said I would leave you be, but not immediately. In actuality, I was hoping we could have a chat."

Goro's retort is cut short at fleeting pressure against the flat of his stomach, a warm palm heating him through his robes—and, without preamble, he is tugged backward insistently and crushed to Joker's chest. Though he stands slightly taller, he cannot help how small he feels when Joker uses his free hand to brush stray hair behind his ear.

He leans in close, much too close for comfort. Panic thrums in Goro's veins, telling him to run, get away, but his feet are rooted to the spot. Try as he might his mind won't permit him to move.

 _This person,_ he realizes, _is not a person at all._

Attuned to his thoughts, Joker's grip tightens. His chuckle shakes Goro to the core.

"Tell me, Goro Akechi," Joker whispers, "what is it you desire most in this world?"

If he plans to retaliate, he cannot. Fingers close around his throat, restricting him, and the most he can manage are short, pained gasps, futile cries for help paired with feeble attempts to claw at the arms wound around him and pry them off.

The temperature in the chapel drops several degrees and, at once, Goro's aware he is in severe danger.

 _This,_ he marvels, as his surroundings blur around him, a reminder of his foolishness and the caution he should have exercised more readily, _is what death is, isn't it? Am I going to die here?_

He doesn't. Just as he thinks his consciousness might slip away from him, he's released. He drops to his knees and desperately draws oxygen into his lungs, coughing as he breathes in too hard. He hears Joker's shoes click familiarly as he steps around him, surveys him in the same manner a shark might their prey.

"Beautiful," Joker says, "and intelligent to boot. Someone loved by his peers, perceived to be a hero. A prince. But you and I are both aware that is far from the truth, don't we?"

Goro brushes his own fingers against his throat, seeking any abnormalities. When he finds none, he lifts his head and glares at Joker. "What are you talking ab—"

"You despise them," Joker interrupts. He drops to Goro's height and takes his chin in hand, a reverent touch. "You despise Shujin Academy. You despise the world. The animosity you hold towards the things around you is astounding—if not a little pathetic."

 _Pathetic? Me?_ Goro's brows pull together. "You don't know anything about me!" he snaps.

"On the contrary," Joker replies, "I know _everything_ about you. Better than you know yourself, even. And I can take a guess as to the reason you're really here."

He releases him, then, smiles in a way that is irritatingly condescending.

"I recall asking you a question," he says, after a moment of tense silence. He rises to his feet and adjusts his gloves, wipes nonexistent dust from his clothes. "I'm intrigued to hear your answer."

"Why would you need to hear it," Goro begins, "if you already know what it is I'm thinking?"

Joker seems to consider this. He presses a finger to his lips and replies, "What's the fun in understanding if I don't get to hear it straight from your mouth? What's the point in not taking the chance to chip away at your pride, watch you crack and fall apart at the seams?"

Goro, mortified, is left unable to provide a proper response. Thus, he continues. "You see, _that's_ what makes playing with people like you amusing—determining how long it takes until you stop resisting."

Goro thrashes as he's grabbed and brought into Joker's arms a second time, an embrace that feels disturbing and wrong but also sinfully alluring, like an aphrodisiac clouding his brain, delaying cognitive thought.

He slumps, falls backward into Joker's lap and feels a smirk against the side of his jaw. _I can't let him win,_ he thinks, though his determination wavers.

"Still, you fight it," Joker muses. His slender fingers travel down Goro's sides, settle around his hips and tug him possessively closer. "Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we?

His robes, he decides, are much too light. They cling to his sweat-soaked skin and provide scarce support in opposition to the hands that explore his neck, his chest, his stomach, rovering and invasive and causing him to shuffle feebly away in clear disgust.

Joker laughs, carefree.

"You're beautiful like this," he says.

 _Shut up,_ Goro nearly shouts. He grits his teeth and shifts as he tries, again, to move away, only to feel Joker’s substantial erection. He gasps aloud at the sensation.

"Beautiful," Joker repeats, as if Goro's reactions are all the proof he needs. He grasps Goro's jaw and urges their eyes to meet, more forceful than before. "Look at me, love."

A mouth on his. A tongue, pushing in. Goro screws his eyes shut and groans out in dismay, his hands shaking, gripping, trying to gain hold of whatever body part they can find. If Joker notices his attempts he pays them no mind.

He pulls away with a wet pop. "Oh, my prince," he utters, "won't you please sing more for me?"

"F-fuck you," Goro swears, without thinking. Joker's hands find his outer thighs and squeeze, hard.

"What sinful words!" he titters, amused. "I'd never guess you were capable of this sort of language."

"Let me go!"

"I will," Joker promises. He dips his head and presses his lips to Goro's throat, sending fire searing through every ounce of his blood. "Once you tell me what you desire."

 _Die!_ Goro's nails sink into Joker's wrists, unrelenting, even as Joker easily swats him away. _Let me go! Die!_

"Ah, that is what I adore most about you," Joker tells him. "A good, obedient boy such as you, thinking these violent thoughts... What would everyone say if they saw you like this? Would they still love you as they do now? Would they accept you, vulgarity and all?"

It's a pointless question. Goro envisions their potential reactions in his mind's eye, unable to determine if it is his own imagination or a result of Joker's influence.

"They believe you an angel," Joker says, soft and sympathetic, "but the truth is you aren't much different than I." His hand ghosts over Goro's cock through his robes and Goro instinctively thrusts upwards into the touch. "You're adorable. I can't help but feel as if we were destined to meet."

"You're full of shit," Goro spits. He's shaking, unable to tell whether it's from arousal or rage or some disgusting mix between the two. "I'm nothing like you."

"I beg to differ," Joker replies, disregarding his choice words. His kisses trail lower as he tugs down at Goro's robes. "Your skin is sublime," he adds, distracted. "Pretty and unblemished… Like it was made to be marked by me."

Goro doesn't get much time to process the implication behind this statement before even teeth are sinking into his exposed shoulder, deep enough to draw blood. He fails to stifle a scream and it echoes around them, a song unlike any he's ever heard.

Joker doesn't appear to want to stop there. Of course he doesn't. One hand snakes beneath his gown and rubs over his chest. Goro bites his lip as a nipple is taken between his thumb and forefinger and pinched roughly, teasing.

"Those sounds," Joker gasps. His breath is hot and causes the hairs on the back of Goro's neck to stand on end. "You've no idea the effect you're having on me."

"I can— _ah_ —t-take a guess."

"Does that defiant mouth of yours never cease?" Joker clicks his tongue, draws his hands away at once. Goro hates that he whines at the loss. "What am I going to do with you?"

 _Kill me,_ Goro begs internally, aware Joker can hear. _Please. I'd rather die than be humiliated like this._

"You would die to spare your pride?" Joker asks. His teeth catch Goro's ear, tugging at the cartilage. "My, what an interesting boy you are. At this rate I may just be forced to keep you."

He doesn't elaborate. He stands abruptly and takes Goro with him, keeping him held off the ground with one arm wound securely around his waist. Goro, whiplashed from the movement, grabs his bicep to steady himself, more from instinct than a need for actual assistance.

"Don't worry," Joker assures him. "We're not finished yet."

A flash. A blur of swift, indecipherable movement, and suddenly Goro finds that he's standing, now, bent partially over the lectern and gripping its slanted surface lest his legs give way beneath him and send him tumbling to the ground below.

It's cold, he muses. Despite being indoors he feels something like bitter frost nip at his skin, freezing him to the very tips of his toes, almost numbing. Were it not the slight quiver he can see in his arms he's not sure he would notice his limbs were still connected to him at all.

When Joker's hands are on him again the heat is too much, too fast. It licks at every inch of Goro's being and makes him feverish, like he might vomit, but also oddly ecstatic. He wants it, _needs_ it, craves it like a lone man craves water in the desert.

Sweat sticks to him everywhere, on his forehead, plastering hair to his face, but he doesn't care. When Joker lifts his robes and presses a palm over the curve of his ass he moans aloud and arches back into it.

"Are you ready to confess to me yet?" Joker asks.

 _Yes,_ Goro nearly cries, but stops. He bites the inside of his cheek to ground himself, gasps as he grips the lectern harder. His nails bite into the aged wood. _Focus. I need to_ focus. _I can't let him win._

"Why," he grounds out, through gritted teeth, "would I confess to a demon?"

"Why wouldn't you?" Joker counters, easily, like he's heard this a thousand times over. "I'm a very good listener."

He leans closer, then, and Goro's lashes flutter shut as nimble fingers ghost along his shoulder blades, petting him. The gesture shouldn't be as comforting as it is.

"And," Joker adds, scarcely audible, "I can give you exactly what you want."

"T-then fuck off," Goro says. His knees buckle and he nearly slips but Joker catches him—again. He shudders at the sensation of being embraced, but manages to continue his respite regardless. "I want y-you to _leave me alone."_

"Your words do not match your actions," Joker says. He drapes himself over Goro's back and Goro barely stifles a curse, hating it, _wanting_ it, stuck somewhere between seeking him out or shoving him away. "Has anyone ever touched you like this?"

His lack of a response is answer enough, and Joker laughs. "Don't worry. Just tell me what it is you desire and I'll give you everything you want, possibly more."

"B-bastard."

"Well?" Joker's lips brush along his cheek, sickeningly fond. "Take as long as you like. I can continue this for an eternity."

"S-someone would find us," Goro says.

"If a person were to enter here," Joker replies, "they would only find _you,_ draped over this podium, bare and supple." He hums, considering the thought, and presses a kiss to the corner of Goro's lips. "I wonder what they would say if they happened upon such a sight."

"N-no…"

"Don't make this any harder on yourself than it needs to be. I'm here for you." He squeezes Goro's ass, his hand greedy, lingering. "I want to help you."

Goro hisses out a curse. "I don't need you… I'm perfectly capable on my own."

"You're stubborn. I like that." Joker pulls away and Goro swears, lowers his head unto the lectern as he takes the chance to gather his composure. "But, unfortunately for you, I'm the same."

Pressure against his entrance causes Goro to cry out in shock. It's a noise completely foreign even to himself and he slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle it.

Joker, sinking in his index to the knuckle, lets out an approving purr.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he goads, his voice rumbling, low, wrapping around Goro in a seductive and blanketing deluge. His other hand, having traveled lower, winds around the base of Goro's cock and gives it a firm stroke. A promise of what's to come should he behave. "Share with me the things you're unable to divulge to anyone else. Let me be your rock."

"I-I—" Another jerk, barely there, and he threatens to topple once more. He's certain the sole reason he hasn't fallen over is due to Joker holding him upright.

Joker leans forward, rests his chin atop Goro's shoulder. "Yes, my sweet?"

"I want…" His mouth moves before he can second guess it, think to stop the words from slipping past his reddened lips. "I want to be acknowledged."

"Hm?" Joker's thumb brushes over the tip, causing him to quiver. "Could you speak up? I didn't quite catch that."

He's messing with him. Goro bristles. "You _asshole."_

Another finger enters him. He chokes on whatever insult he means to spew next and Joker commands, "Continue."

He swallows. He lifts his head and gazes out at the empty chapel, its barren seats. His mind fogged, distracted, he wonders what it might be like to stand here as a preacher, give a sermon to the masses. 

What bullshit would _he_ feed the people? Surely, he thinks, they wouldn't be much different than the lies he already feeds his peers on a daily basis—untruths about his reasons for being here, his personality. Who he is.

Luckily, he isn't required to elaborate further. Joker breaches him with a third finger and, when he speaks, the frown he’s wearing is near audible in his tone.

"I see," he says. "You want to be seen. _Truly_ seen."

Goro does not answer. He thrusts his hips forward and groans out in gratification as Joker rewards him, stroking his cock harder, faster.

"I told you I know about you, Goro Akechi," he continues, "and I meant it. No one is suited to appreciate you for who you are better than me.” He withdraws his fingers and soothes his gloved hands over Goro’s ass instead, tender, before he lifts his hand and harshly slaps the flesh. Awaiting an answer. “Don’t you agree?”

There’s no point in lying, anymore. Joker has destroyed the walls he worked so hard to create, torn them down as if they were nothing but insignificant hurdles. Laid him panting and bare in the middle of this cursed chapel, pulled screams from his lips and forced him to admit his deepest insecurities, all while wearing a smile—and, honestly, admitting this is less than favorable.

Goro feels positively _violated._ Exposed. There’s no coming back from this.

Joker, contrary to him, radiates clear joy at this revelation. He strokes his hair almost lovingly, paying no mind to the sweaty, uncouth mess it has become.

“My prince,” he coos, and the endearment has Goro’s chest lurching in a manner completely uncharacteristic of him, “you do want this, don’t you?”

He releases a shaky breath. He wants to laugh, really. What had he done to get in this situation? What will happen to him should he agree?

Joker makes a pleased noise. “Of course,” he asserts, “I have an hypothesis as to what your answer might be, but I’ve told you, haven’t I? I’d rather hear it come from your mouth.”

At a loss, Goro responds in the best way he knows how.

“Sing them over again to me,” he hums, “Wonderful words of Life.”

This, apparently, is the correct decision. He senses Joker’s grin more than he sees it, feels the probing head of his cock as he slowly begins to slide into him. He bites his bottom lip hard enough to bleed, but releases and continues anyway, willing his body to go slack, pliant.

“Let me m-more of their beauty see… Wonderful words of Life…”

Joker is not kind. Once he’s inside him he pulls out and thrusts back in, roughly, leaving no room for further preamble as he elicits another shout from Goro, interrupting his broken hymn.

His fingers brush his Adam’s apple, settle around his throat and apply moderate pressure. “Did I tell you to stop?”

He shakes his head, shuts his eyes and imagines he were performing. He allows some temporary confidence to wash over him, uses it to project his voice louder.

“Words of life and beauty,” he carols, “t-teach me… faith and duty…” Joker thrusting in at a particular angle has him shouting, whining, hanging to what little remains of his composure desperately—he’ll have every other aspect of his being stripped away, but not this.

“Amazing,” Joker gasps, though Goro can’t tell if he’s referring to his voice or how well he takes his cock. “You’re doing wonderful, Akechi… So perfect for me, my sweet prince…”

“Christ,” he cries, between ragged moans, “the b-blessed One, gives to all, Wonderful words of life.”

He makes no objections as he's suddenly lifted, feet leaving the ground and suspended in midair as he’s made to grab the lectern while his backside is held out to Joker like a masterpiece or some sort of offering. He nearly loses his place when Joker fucks into him again, fast and ruthless and rhythmless, a sign of his waning composure.

Goro scoffs to think that a demon would be rendered to this over a human, but keeps the comment to himself in favor of pressing on resolutely. “Sinner, list to the l-loving call, Wonderful words of life…”

“All so freely given,” Joker continues, for him, gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises, “wooing us to heaven: beautiful, wonderful words… Wonderful words of life.”

"Please," Goro begs, as the coil within his stomach tightens, threatens to snap. His cock aches to be touched, relieved. _"Fuck._ Joker, you—"

"Shhh," Joker says. He kisses his hair, wraps a gloved hand around his cock. The leather of his gloves, he'd failed to notice earlier, is rough but hot against him, dangerous yet addictive. He does not need to ask as Joker begins stroking him at a steady pace. "I told you I'd help you, wouldn't I? I always take care of what's mine."

An abrupt squeeze paired with that final comment is all it takes for Goro to come undone, biting into his hand as his cock twitches and then releases, cumming the hardest he ever has in his life. He shakes and cries, feels the aftermath and tears spilling from his eyes even after he's finished—and, still, it isn't over, given how frantically Joker thrusts into him, muttering swears and licking a stripe along his shoulder blades.

"Good boy," he praises, breathless. "You've done so good for me. Let me come inside you, yeah?"

Goro nods. _"Yes,"_ he sobs.

Joker does, moments later. His movements slow and he thrusts deep within him, holds him still as he releases. Goro shudders and scrambles to keep hold of the podium.

Goro sighs. Lips press to the back of his neck, travel upward to his ear and pepper slow kisses along the side of his face. He allows it, just as he allows Joker to lift him again and bring him to the floor, nestle him in his lap. _He's hot,_ Goro thinks, blissed out and near drunk on pleasure. _Are demons supposed to be hot?_

"What does this mean?" he asks, once his senses have somewhat returned to him. The weight of his actions tonight are there, but barely—he's sure he'll regret this more intensely later. "Pending these circumstances, I've practically abandoned the faith."

"That you have," Joker agrees. "And yet… Is it so bad to accept me as your new God?"

Goro rests his head against his chest. Exhaustion tugs at his body, making him slack. He won't remain awake for much longer.

"Do you want an honest answer to that?"

"Do not fret," Joker says. "When you wake it will be as if nothing happened. No one will know." His arms circle Goro's waist, a blatant show of possession. "Well, no one except me, of course. It'll be our little secret."

Goro groans. "Good, then. I'd prefer it to stay that way."

"You should also be aware," Joker adds, "that I do not intend on letting you go after one measly tryst. The question, as you can probably assume, is whether you're up for it."

Ah, but—this is dangerous, isn't it? Fornicating with a demon, bearing the uniform of a religious school, and being one of the most respected students to boot. Certainly, discovered or not, this would utterly shatter what reality lies beneath the perception everyone has of him.

 _God,_ he thinks, _if you're out there… You're a real piece of shit, you know that?_

"Well?" Joker presses.

Half-conscious, Goro mutters his reply. Joker laughs, light, in his ear, and the gentle sound is enough to lull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed this feel free to talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shotacatboy)


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